


Déjà Vu

by sapphorror



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Bad Decisions, Car Sex, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Exhibitionism, Hate Sex, Kidnapping, Knifeplay, M/M, Mild Blood, Possessive Behavior, Power Exchange, Taking Under-Negotiated Kink To A New Level, Trans Kurapika, on every level
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:34:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27827608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphorror/pseuds/sapphorror
Summary: “For fuck’s sake, angel.” He sounded almost baffled, with a distinct edge of mania and a firmer one of annoyance, and the satisfaction of driving Chrollo to that point hit Kurapika harder than a drug trip, means be damned. “What, do you keep a knife up your cunt, too?”Kurapika simpered, “Why don’t you find out?”“Don’t you fucking dare,” Machi said, with feeling.“Wouldn’t that hurt?” Shizuku was half-twisted again, looking back on the sprawl of bodies in the backseat, sounding concerned.“Not if you do it right,” Kurapika answered distractedly, uncaring of the fact he was engaging a Spider in polite conversation. More important things.or, Chrollo and Kurapika fuck in the backseat of a moving vehicle, much to Machi's consternation.
Relationships: Kurapika/Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer
Comments: 46
Kudos: 269





	Déjà Vu

**Author's Note:**

  * For [parke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/parke/gifts).



> big thank you to Grayson for encouraging me to write this, because if it weren't for them this would've stayed as a silly little twitter prompt (though, perhaps that would've been for the better)
> 
> I'd like to formally apologize to Machi, for gross abuse of her Nen abilities. This is, 100%, not how it works in any capacity, but in my defense, I had a very good reason for making stuff up: porn.

The first thing Kurapika registered was the thudding ache in his throat, like a thousand needles threaded under the surface of the skin, pushing further with each beat of his pulse. The second, the sweaty stick of hot leather to the back of his neck, and when he shifted forward to escape the discomfort, a third made itself known via the sharp sting of rapidly returning blood flow; his arms were bound, numb fingers pinned at the small of his back. 

“Oh, you’re awake,” a voice drawled, too close, and a jolt of something icy thrummed through Kurapika under the oppressive heat. “Welcome back to the land of the living, angel.”

Like pieces to a puzzle, the rest of Kurapika’s surroundings fell into place. He was situated on one end of a car’s wide backseat, half-slumped against the door; judging by the shape and legroom, he guessed it was probably some type of SUV. The seats were ancient sun-cracked leather, and beaded strings jangled noisily from the rearview mirror. A woman in the driver’s seat, eyes intent on the road, and another in the passenger’s, sneakered feet propped up on the dashboard. And across from him, silhouetted by the smear of sunset outside the window, was a man with night-dark hair and the shadow of a smirk tugging at pretty lips.

“Chrollo,” he said, around a throat full of bruises. It came out half animalistic growl, half wheeze.

“It’s nice to see you too.“ Chrollo’s smirk twitched an almost imperceptible fraction wider. It was infuriating, the expression he wore—a cryptic blend of bored and fascinated, eyes not quite focused, like Kurapika was holding his attention but only barely. He’d had the exact same look on his face in Yorkshin, wrapped up in unbreakable chains and being traded back to his Spiders for the lives of two kids. Somehow, that made it worse, that having Kurapika bound before him didn’t crack Chrollo’s calm any more than being at the Kurta’s mercy did. “Say, angel, is anything about this situation giving you the most peculiar sense of _déjà vu,_ or is it just me?”

Kurapika prided himself on his ability to make split-second decisions. Some would call it moving on impulse—he called it high-speed analysis, the ability to select at a glance from an array of equally stupid choices, and at least as often as not, he guessed right. In this case, the choice was between swinging upwards and kicking Chrollo’s mocking face in with bound legs, or lunging for the door and flinging himself with abandon from a moving vehicle. He went for the door. Even he knew when it was best to retreat and regroup.

“Bad idea, angel,” came Chrollo’s voice, sticky-sweet and unwelcome as Kurapika twisted forward, shoulder aimed at the door lock, and it was followed swiftly by a hand in his hair, yanking him back, just a little too rough to reflect the lackadaisical indifference of Chrollo’s tone. Kurapika growled low in his throat, hardly human, the familiar white-hot stirrings of Emperor Time flickering to life within him. He went loose and let Chrollo’s momentum do the work for him, the back of his head clipping Chrollo’s chin hard enough to hurt them both as he swung his feet up to smack the lock and focused on imagining the familiar weight of his chains. “ _Really_ bad idea— _shit,_ ” Chrollo hissed as Kurapika’s seeking fingernails made contact with something soft and sensitive. A second’s surge of intense satisfaction and Kurapika moved to press his advantage, and then everything was washed out by blinding, breath-robbing pain, the sensation of a thousand acid-drenched garrotes digging into his ankles, his thighs, twisting his arms so far back his shoulders creaked with the strain of staying in socket. He gasped raggedly, and suddenly all he could think was that the wetness slicking his fingers was too thick to just be sweat. “ _Kurapika._ Listen to me.”

A sort of painful, cutting clarity infused him. His back was flush to Chrollo’s chest, the Spider’s limbs awkwardly tangled around his own, one hand maintaining a bruising grip at the junction between neck and shoulder. He noticed now just how hot his skin was, unbearably so, like he’d been doused in scalding water. Something—blood—was caked under his fingernails. Chrollo’s breathing held the slightest stutter, and even now, Kurapika felt a fierce sense of achievement ignite inside him at having created the tiniest crack in the facade. 

“Kurapika,” Chrollo repeated. “You’re smart. Assess the situation.”

Kurapika stared down the faint reflection of his face in the window, lips parted, red eyes bare. His head tucked under Chrollo’s chin like a lover, cheek pressed into the fur hem of his coat. Outside, scenery smeared by, big brick buildings crowding too-empty streets; the foothills of the city.

He assessed; rapidly, the problem became clear. No ropes, no shackles—he was bound up tighter than a steel trap, but there were no bindings to be found. 

Short-term memory emerged as if from a fog. Caught off-guard, caged in by Spiders, hands tied, airways strangled off. Chrollo cradling him as he choked, Kurapika’s head tucked under his chin, cheek pressed into the fur hem of his coat. _Easy, angel. Easy._

Long, shimmering threads, stretching from his neck to Machi’s clenched fist.

“Do you see now?” The grip on his shoulder had melted, into something soft and sweet and obscenely soothing, the cool kiss of skin an anchor within the heat of breathless pain. “Machi can feel every move you make right now, and her Threads will cut through bone like hot wax if she wants them to. The only thing worse for you than struggling would be using your Nen—it isn’t just your body she’ll damage.” And that much was obvious, through the dim buzz of physical pain, the edge of something deeper and far more brutal teetering just on the brink of making itself known. “Ease up on him, Machi. He gets the point.”

Kurapika saw now that it was Machi in the driver’s seat, fingers white-knuckled on the wheel and face as unforgiving as stone. She hadn’t shifted an inch, but her eyes flickered spastically between the road and the reflection in the rearview mirror, and the look in them was one of calculation—carefully weighing whether it’d be wisest to rend Kurapika into mince right there and deal with the consequences later. “Don’t be stupid.”

“And since when do you tell me what to do?” Chrollo’s tone was light, teasing, but there was an impatient edge to it. “Really. There’s no reason to be paranoid. Live a little.”

“You’re supposed to do what he says.” From the passenger’s seat, Shizuku. Her feet were still on the dashboard, her muscles still liquid. She had her chin propped in her hand, and her eyes were on Machi, the spidery fingers clenching the wheel, not the scene in the backseat. She spoke in a tone of casual observation, unbiased. “Those are the rules.”

A beat, Machi’s eyes hard and heavy against Chrollo’s. Then, she exhaled, and the tension went out of her body like water. She turned her gaze back to the road. “Don’t come crying to me when he stabs you.”

Around Kurapika, the invisible threads relaxed. Somehow, it was worse than being constricted; the sharpness of returning blood-flow and a rubbed-raw sense of vulnerability lingering all over.

_Stupid._ He’d landed himself in this compromising a position, and it was all just thanks to lack of foresight. He should’ve known Chrollo wouldn’t be alone with just Shizuku, that he wouldn’t have been so easy to shadow. _Would’ve_ known, had he stopped to think, had the sight of Chrollo in _his_ territory not gifted him with wings of white-hot rage that blotted out rationality.

(He didn’t let himself wonder when he had started to consider the dilapidated warehouses and smoky backstreets of the Nostrades _his;_ rich hotel lobbies splashing a polished veneer over their inner hives of vice the closest he got to _home._ No time, and no reason. More important things.)

Kurapika could breathe again, but Chrollo hadn’t moved. His hand was still a fluttering press against Kurapika’s neck, his breath rustling sweat-stuck blond hair. Kurapika realized abruptly he was shirtless under that ridiculous coat, abdomen a bare stretch of soft skin and hard muscle, and Kurapika could feel the heat of it through the fabric of his suit, feel a skittering drum-beat that could only be Chrollo’s pulse. Kurapika tucked his face further into the white fringe and inhaled; Chrollo smelled of dust and dead things, and Kurapika wanted to hate it.

He needed a new plan.

He flexed his fingers, the movement sending hot tingling spikes up his numbed arms. No space at all between him and Chrollo, nails scraping against the Spider’s stomach. Kurapika was practically in his lap. He squirmed, intending to at the very least escape a few inches, and felt the hard prod of his second favorite switchblade in his back pocket.

Oh. They hadn’t disarmed him.

“Fine.” In increments, Kurapika relaxed his shoulders, letting himself sink back into the expanse of skin and soft fur. Moving sent sharp little aches all through him, and the proximity was doing nothing for his fever, but his arms settled lower this way, placing fingertips well past the waistband of his pants. “I understand my position. Still, if you were going to go to all the trouble of kidnapping me, I’d think you’d at least be able to steal a car with air-conditioning.”

“Air-conditioning’s working just fine.” Kurapika could hear Chrollo’s grin. “You’re just running hot. Wonder why. Anyway, you shouldn’t think so highly of yourself. This isn’t anything personal, we were just in the neighborhood, and didn’t want you getting in the way.”

Kurapika filed that away to think about later; auxiliary information, providing him with questions better answered when he wasn’t bound. _Why are they here?_ To steal something, presumably. _Why bother?_ Getting hunted down by a vengeance-driven lunatic from the moment he caught wind of your presence would undoubtedly make for an intolerable work environment. _What are they planning to do to me now?_ Well. That one Kurapika simply wouldn’t find out. “What did you do with my contacts?”

“He took them out while you were unconscious.” Machi up in front, glaringly deadpan. “Like a creep.”

“Ahh, you’re always so harsh on me. I was doing him a favor. You’re not supposed to keep the lenses in when you sleep—right, Shizu?”

“Right,” Shizuku agreed, guileless. “You can get an eye infection that way.”

“See? He should be thanking me.” Chrollo nudged closer, until his nose was bumping up into Kurapika’s hair, and Kurapika could _feel_ Chrollo’s grin rather than just hear it, smooth and smug and smirking against his throat. “Besides, it’s such a shame to keep those stunning eyes of his hidden.”

Kurapika slammed his head back, flat into the strong curve of Chrollo’s nose. The harsh rush of breath and wet give of bone couldn’t have been more satisfying. The switchblade came twirling from his pocket, its long stiletto blade popping out with the ease of too much practice, and he couldn’t aim from this position, but he didn’t need to, when Chrollo was a bare-skinned mass of vitals just behind him. He jerked back, blade angled upward, and then the breath was punched out of him as his wrist was twisted and his hands were left empty, save for a burning wet streak across his palm where the razor-edge had flickered past.

“You really don’t give up, do you.” Chrollo’s voice was labored now, edged by a high wheeze, speaking around pain and blood and a nasty nasal fracture, and _still_ he managed to sound flippant. “It’s admirable, really, if not a sign of great intelligence. Sure you aren’t an Enhancer? Machi, calm down.”

Abruptly, Kurapika found himself flipped around, back once again to the sticky leather, and Chrollo looming over him, taking up the whole world. There was blood smeared across his upper lip, the flesh there slightly swollen, and he was holding _Kurapika’s_ knife, flicking the beautiful silver blade into the engraved handle and back out again, like a child fidgeting. And he still looked fucking _bored._

“Well. I suppose I have to search you for weapons now.”

That was all the warning Kurapika got before Chrollo’s hands were under his jacket. They stripped him of his shoulders holsters easily, same with the gun at his belt and knife strapped to his side, the tiny blades concealed in his shoe-laces and even his needle-pointed cufflinks. It wasn’t until Chrollo reached the shurikens sewn into Kurapika’s coat lining and the second switchblade in his breast pocket that he started to lose his patience.

“Angel,” he said evenly, tossing the latest piece of deadly metal in the rapidly-accruing pile on the neighboring seat, “tell me, how often are you actually required to _use_ half of these?”

Chrollo’s closeness was starting to grate on him, an irritating fray on Kurapika’s nerves, already rubbed raw and strung out from Machi’s clever threads. His arms were numb again, pinned uselessly behind him, but that only made him more aware of everything else, Chrollo’s cool fingers pressing into him through the fabric of his shirt, stripping him of something far more intimate than clothing. His heat was rising at a nauseating pace, despite the alleged air-conditioning. “What can I say,” he said, and it didn’t come out quite as flat as he meant it to. His throat still hurt. “I like variety.”

“Mm. Well, I suppose I wouldn’t be able to steal from you if you didn’t collect _something._ ” Chrollo looked at the pile and back to Kurapika, picked up a blade and passed it towards the front seat. “Here, Shizu, take these.”

Shizuku took the weapons without a word, and a second later Kurapika felt the throb of her Nen, vehicle filling with the sounds of Blinky devouring his arsenal. “These are really nice.”

“Of course the murderer has discerning taste.” A terse sigh from Machi. “This wouldn’t be necessary if we just killed him now.”

“And cut Nobunaga out of the fun? And here I thought you had a heart.” Chrollo made a show at shaking his head, tutting like a chiding parent, so casually obnoxious even Kurapika wanted to roll his eyes on Machi’s behalf.

“I have a _brain,”_ Machi snapped, and made a sharp turn that jostled Kurapika in his seat.

Shizuku, unaffected by the lurch, twisted around, holding up the knife from Kurapika’s breast pocket—his _first_ favorite switchblade. “Can I keep this one?”

“Sure thing, Shizu. Go crazy.” For a second, Chrollo’s eyes weren’t on him, the smothering weight of the Spider’s full attention momentarily lifted as he addressed Shizuku, warmth in his voice, _affection,_ the nagging edge of sharing an inside joke. It made Kurapika feel sick. Chrollo turned back around. “Now, where were we?”

Chrollo still had Kurapika’s stiletto gripped lazily in one hand, the only weapon not sacrificed to Blinky or Shizuku’s bottomless denim pockets. He flipped it once and smiled, as if at a friendly stranger. “Judging from current data, you probably keep knives in places I’ll never find, so I’m afraid I’m going to have to start taking some shortcuts.”

Chrollo grabbed the shoulder of Kurapika’s jacket, gave it one firm tug that got it caught on the semi-corporeal Nen Threads wrapping Kurapika from head to toe. There wasn’t anything of _afraid_ in him when he frowned, flipped the knife again, and started slicing through thousands of jennies worth of tailored fabric. The jacket fell around Kurapika in cut up pieces, leaving him stripped to his white dress shirt, semi-sheer from sweat, and he was more annoyed about Chrollo dulling his blade than he was about the lost clothing.

Of course, when Chrollo ran the knife through the dampened front of his shirt in one smooth cut, mangling the buttons and putting them bare chest to bare chest, that was another matter entirely.

Open air hit him in a smooth rush, a cool kiss on skin hotter than ever, one that left him prickling and raw and stiff, all gooseflesh and peaked nipples. There was nothing under his shirt aside from the stretch of wired muscle, downy hairs on his stomach and the glitter of sweat, but that didn’t stop Chrollo’s hands from exploring him anyway, starting at sharp hipbones and playing up his ribs like his hitching breath was an instrument. Space swirled into a vortex, transported him back somewhere else, _déjà vu,_ dizzy as a drunk. A backroom, legs stiff from sitting in a car, chains dangling from his wrist as he exchanged the ill-fitting receptionist’s uniform for familiar traditional clothes he still longed for. It hadn’t been an act of malice, or a display of power, or anything at all but a way to occupy himself while rage he couldn’t afford to direct ate him up from the inside out, but maybe he had liked Chrollo’s eyes settling on his naked body anyway.

Not that this was anything like that. Then, Chrollo’s gaze had been empty, and fleeting, skittering away in search of an escape plan. Then, Kurapika had been in charge. Now, Chrollo’s eyes held a glimmer, not much, but a definite tipping of his careful balance between _bored_ and _fascinated,_ and Kurapika’s nakedness was being acted upon, laid out and touched, immediate object rather than distant subject. It was sharp and visceral and made his head rise, and maybe he didn’t hate it. Maybe he liked it.

Chrollo, intrigued or at least playing at it, slid the blade up along Kurapika’s stomach, made it do a cold ghosting dance up his abdomen, darting out to graze his sides, and the breaths fell from Kurapika’s lips like musical notes, sweet birdsong. This too was familiar, memories of nights with a knife in hand, pressing the dull edge against ribs, hips, thighs, flipping it closed before touching it to his folds because he was too scared he’d _actually_ cut something. And now. _Acted upon,_ by the person he hated most. He swallowed around an aching throat and squeezed the cut on his palm and wondered what he would feel if Chrollo carved into him.

Chrollo drew the blade up, close under Kurapika’s left breast, a dangerous edge, a tingling prick. “You’re getting warmer.”

Kurapika gasped. “Wonder why.”

Then the knife was gone, leaving a pleasant throb in its place. Chrollo shifted in his seat, practically on top of Kurapika, and when he grabbed Kurapika’s thigh there was no veneer of searching for weapons. He found the knife holstered there anyway, a sheathed bump beneath Kurapika’s pants.

“For fuck’s sake, angel.” He sounded almost baffled, with a distinct edge of mania and a firmer one of annoyance, and the satisfaction of driving Chrollo to that point hit Kurapika harder than a drug trip, means be damned. “What, do you keep a knife up your cunt, too?”

Kurapika simpered, “Why don’t you find out?”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Machi said, with feeling.

“Wouldn’t that hurt?” Shizuku was half-twisted again, looking back on the sprawl of bodies in the backseat, sounding concerned.

“Not if you do it right,” Kurapika answered distractedly, uncaring of the fact he was engaging a Spider in polite conversation. _More important things._

They hung suspended like that for a moment, Chrollo’s eyes as hard and sparkling as granite, Kurapika’s undoubtedly blazing. Then Chrollo’s hands were at his waistband, clumsy tugs of his pants, Machi’s vulgar protests disregarded.

He got them down to about Kurapika’s mid-thigh before the threads interfered, but that was enough to slip a hand in and unstrap the holster, pull it out and toss it haphazardly up front. Chrollo sat back hard, and suddenly Kurapika was in his lap, legs awkwardly folded under himself, their chests pressed flush. Kurapika should’ve been angry, but all he felt was melting, a condensation-soaked swelter of a summer day trapped in the space between Chrollo’s bare skin and his.

Chrollo’s fingers found the junction of his thighs, pressed together by Machi’s threads and sticky-slick from the drip of sweat and sweeter things. The wetness only eased the way for those fingers, sliding their way deep into the crevice and nudging up against Kurapika in a place that made fireworks go off in his head. Firm, sure strokes, against flesh that had never felt softer, and his thighs were too close together for precision, had Chrollo even cared, so each draw of thick digits scraped against lips and labia and clit in uncoordinated, overwhelming surges of sensation that left him shaking and slippery and sick with it. Then Chrollo’s fingers hooked on something delicate and all at once they were _inside,_ up to the knuckle, thick between closed legs and filling Kurapika with Chrollo’s pulse. “No knife,” Chrollo breathed into his hair, though it didn’t sound like concealed weaponry was what he was thinking about.

“Good.” Shizuku, up front, bizarrely unaffected by the heated haze that had suffused the vehicle. Through it, her voice was a warble, unimportant in the face of Chrollo’s fingers, flickering heartbeat, to clench around. “Hidden weapons are smart, but that would have made me worried.”

“Because nothing about Chrollo fingering the chain user in the backseat is worrying,” Machi hissed.

“Hmm.” Shizuku sounded genuinely considering. “Not that I can think of, no.”

Machi said something back, but Kurapika wasn’t listening—he was grinding down on Chrollo’s hand, making noises like birdsong, gaze locked on granite eyes. They were harder, more sparkling than ever, a heavy blanket of enraptured attention, not quite seeing Kurapika, but stuck on him all the same. Kurapika could feel his hardness against his thigh, incontrovertible proof Chrollo was as caught up in this haze as he was, as desperate and curious and driven to impulse. To think that all along this was the secret to putting a crack in the Spider Head’s composure.

Those fingers twisted deeper, moving with him, tugging out new notes with each thrust. Chrollo’s fist was wedged nearly completely between the slickness of Kurapika’s thighs, heel of his hand rubbing insistently against Kurapika’s clit, sending Kurapika on a dizzy spiral. Deep inside, Chrollo _pulled,_ on something wet and soft and giving, that drew a song from Kurapika’s throat and made him squeeze his eyes shut.

Kurapika wondered why he hadn’t done this the first time. A hot afterimage flashed against the backs of his eyelids, screen burn, Chrollo chained up under him, skirt pushed up his hips. He wondered what it would have been like to put a hand in Chrollo’s pants, feel the softness of his skin, nails and clever fingers—would he have stayed so infuriatingly calm then, or would he have moaned a litany for Kurapika? Or if Kurapika had stripped them both in that backroom, pressed their bodies together until they were each gasping. Of course, there had been a dozen compelling reasons it hadn’t been so much as a consideration at the time, but right now, they couldn’t have seemed more inconsequentially far off if he had flown to the moon.

A hot line across his thigh, one that left his insides watery and quivering, followed by a stinging that only added a visceral tinge to the haze. His eyes opened slowly, as if moving through molasses, and he caught sight of the cut. Blood smeared out over his skin in a lazy seep, and the stiletto blade gleamed where Chrollo held it in his free hand, edged with wet red.

“You’re sick, angel.” Chrollo’s voice was half-marvel, half-murmur, like it shocked him that Kurapika was screwed up, like he was scared that if he spoke too loudly he would find he’d been seeing things, and Kurapika would go back to being perfect heaven, pure and righteous and boring, an angel with a halo and undamaged white wings, instead of the twisted, fallen thing writhing atop him now. “Downright septic. I killed your clan. Ruined your life. Currently, I have you bound in my car, being taken unwilling to somewhere unknown. You should be concerned about your life, or looking to take mine, but instead you tell me to touch you, and when I take a knife to you, you moan. You’re completely at my mercy, and you’re _getting off on it._ Don’t you find that disgusting?”

“Yeah,” Kurapika breathed. “But you’re obsessed with me.” He didn’t quite believe it, but oh, if it didn’t taste good on his tongue, the thought Chrollo wanted to see Kurapika taken apart just as badly as Kurapika did Chrollo. Mutual malice, loathing, intoxication.

Chrollo drew the blade across his other thigh in one quick flicker, a second hot slash to match the first, and then the knife was at his throat, edge pressed to his jugular, close enough to hit him with the iron stink of his own blood. He could feel his own pulse, _beat-beat-beat,_ against the metal. Under his skin, capillaries bloomed, left him with a full-body flush that sent him light-headed, made it deliciously hard to think.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Chrollo asked, quiet, as if still expected Kurapika to say _no._ “Just like this? In a car with my Spiders and a knife to your throat as we drive you to your certain bloody death?”

Kurapika looked at him like he was stupid. Chrollo laughed, somewhere between delighted and disturbed.

“You’re a slut, Kurapika.”

“And you can’t keep your hands off me.”

“Only because you’re enjoying the attention. Here I thought you wanted me dead.”

Loathing hit Kurapika in a dizzy rush. He fluttered around Chrollo and panted and stared into that smug, stricken face, the blood smeared on pretty swollen lips, and he knew his eyes must have been a more brilliant crimson than ever, because Chrollo couldn’t look away. 

“You’re a monster beyond redemption, I hate you more than I ever could’ve imagined it was possible to feel anything, and someday I’m going to tear your shit-spewing, maggot-dripping, rotted-to-its-core heart out with my bare hands and eat it.” Kurapika rolled his hips down, one purposeful undulation onto Chrollo’s hand, and the stutter in the Spider’s gaze was a million times more satisfying than the sparks it set off inside him. “Now _fuck me._ ”

Chrollo hissed, low. “Machi, let his legs go.”

The car jerked. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re insane. A stupid, lecherous degenerate.”

“ _Machi._ ” The edge in Chrollo’s voice was sharper than the knife at Kurapika’s throat. “Just do it.”

Machi let off a string of obscenities, and suddenly Kurapika could move his legs again, the fist pulled from his cunt in a single motion that left him breathless and aching, his pants pulled down past his knees and his thighs spread wide across Chrollo’s lap. Impatient, Kurapika rutted into Chrollo’s leg, shuddered at the chafe of fabric.

Chrollo fumbled at his fly, pulled himself out. He throbbed against Kurapika’s thigh, flushed a painful-looking magenta, as ruined and ready for it as Kurapika was, and Kurapika’s mouth went pleasantly dry at the thought. Then there were no thoughts at all, because Chrollo was entering him, and if he had found the pulse of Chrollo’s fingers inside distracting, this was downright deafening.

“Wait, hold on—” And Kurapika couldn’t imagine what Chrollo expected him to wait for, or what he wanted him to hold onto with bound hands, because this already felt like an eclipse anyway. But there was a rustle of fabric, a shift inside him, and then Chrollo’s coat was settling around his shoulders, soft and stifling and thick-smelling.

“There,” Chrollo murmured, breathless. Gently, he tilted the knife, prodding Kurapika’s chin upwards. “You have such beautiful eyes, angel.”

A cold spike of rage, instantly smothered by the heat of Chrollo’s bare chest. Nausea mixed with ecstasy, and a million sharp retorts scrabbled to reach his tongue but he couldn’t quite grasp the words, so he settled for, “You’re disgusting.”

“You’re worse.” Chrollo gripped Kurapika’s hip in one hand, rolled him down, made Kurapika moan a rhapsody. The blade danced, from his chin to his throat, pressed against his carotid artery and broke skin. “I could kill you like this. Open up your pretty little neck and send you off to join the rest of your clan.”

“But you won’t.” Kurapika laughed, a hurting breath, around the pain in his throat and coil in chest and fog in his head. He vibrated with it, and the knife scraped his shaking jugular, drew blood. “You’re having too much fun.”

Chrollo frowned, a deep crease in his brow. “You’re awfully full of yourself.”

Kurapika smiled his prettiest. “Isn’t hard to be when you call me an angel.” 

Chrollo’s coat seemed to envelop him, though it was barely hanging off his shoulders, wrapping him in a void of dark stitchery and old-smoke smells, off-white fringe pressing into his face and filling his mouth. He felt dressed up, like a doll, like a virgin princess laid across the sacrificial altar. And Chrollo was looking at him like one, granite mirrors reflecting beauty and awe.

The hand on his hip tightened, and the knife fell, stopping close to his breast. Kurapika felt like he was sinking into a warm bath, wet and suffocating, and every instinct screamed at him to melt into it, lose himself to the heat and the pain and the pleasure, close his eyes and sing sweet hymns. But he ignored the weight on his lids, tipped his chin back and met Chrollo’s gaze.

The way Chrollo looked at him, heavier than the patchwork coat; drinking Kurapika in, eyes on nothing else. He evaluated Kurapika like a _thing,_ like an idol, an ivory statuette with garnets for eyes that he’d stolen all to himself, and now he looked to mark and memorize every groove, every flaw. There was something of possession in it, a sick sense of saying _mine_ , and it made Kurapika’s skin crawl. There was also something that felt almost like worship wherever it fell on Kurapika’s bared flesh.

Most importantly, though, there wasn’t anything there that could ever be called _boredom._

Kurapika had gone celestial. Chrollo was moving now, thrusting inside him, pushing upward in a way that felt like waves crashing. The hand on his hip left bruises, made them move together, when Kurapika was jerky and uncoordinated with shaking pleasure and bound-back arms. The knife fell further, pressing a hot line into his hip, not quite hard enough to break the skin. He _hurt,_ from the cuts on his thighs to the burn in his throat to the million deadly threads tying him up, and the haze had grown so thick he couldn’t see through it, even though he was sure his eyes were open.

He realized all at once that the threads along his arms had grown very tight indeed.

“Wow,” Shizuku said, and Kurapika was only vaguely aware of her eyes on them, certainly not enough to care about being watched. “Machi, do you think Shal was serious when he bet us each a thousand jennies they’d fuck?”

“For fuck’s sake, Shizu,” Machi said in a snap, but Kurapika didn’t miss the strung-out, frustrated, _nervous_ undercurrent in her voice. “Don’t encourage them.”

A tiny thought began to germinate in the back of Kurapika’s mind, too drowned out by sensation to be coherent, but there and nagging him all the same. It was hard to think, to pull on logic, entirely undesirable, but it pulsed anyway, refusing to be ignored.

There was something about having his arms bound and hidden by the heavy drape of Chrollo’s coat that made him feel inanimate, doll-like; an immediate object, with Chrollo’s hands on him, manipulating his limbs and keeping him close, rather than a distant subject. The threads left them tingling with a sharpness that made him think of phantom pains, as if he really was a limbless jewel-eyed mannequin. His legs, though, had been freed entirely, bound only by the dress pants bunched up and pushed to his calves, and like this he could brace his knees on either side of Chrollo’s hips and drive the Spider so deep into himself he saw stars.

“ _Shit,”_ Chrollo hissed, for the second time that day, and oh, if the sound of it wasn’t becoming Kurapika’s favorite song.

“Chrollo,” he said, and it was hard to make his voice sound sweet when it was sex-roughened and desperate, “are you going to fuck me properly, or should I just lie back and start thinking of Yorkshin now?”

Chrollo pinched his side, hard. Kurapika keened. “You’re remarkably bratty for an angel.”

“And you’re a remarkably average fuck for the Devil.”

Then a hand was in his hair, fingers knotted deep, yanking him back. A face as pretty as the stars against his neck. His own knife digging dangerously into the softness of his stomach.

“That’s unfortunate for you, because you’re mine, Kurapika.” Chrollo kissed it into his collar, gentle as a feather, searing as a brand. “You’re a sick little whore, and you’re _mine._ ”

Distantly, Kurapika marveled at how absurd it was that Chrollo had only just realized it.

Then Chrollo did _something_ with his hips, that made him slide against a place vital and pulsating within Kurapika, pubic bones bumping together, and Kurapika couldn’t think of any more lies to tell. Couldn’t think at all, no irritating ideas left to grow in the back of his head like pearls. Chrollo was biting him now, neck and shoulders, and he must have been leaving bruises, leaving scratches on Kurapika’s stomach with that pretty stiletto point. Kurapika went limp and loose and allowed himself to be acted upon, sunk into the role of _possession_ and the perfect heat of Chrollo’s chest against his.

It hit him all at once, really—time had gone watery and meaningless, pleasure less a coil in his chest and more a state of being. The heat reached a boil, the symphony found its peak, all the pretty ways of saying his brain was melting in his skull with ill-advised hormones and too much blood. The world rushed around him, and he couldn’t tell if it was the orgasm or the car speeding. Then he came back to himself, the fever in him burned out, covered in a cooling sweat and horrifically cognizant that he had the leader of the Phantom Troupe’s cock inside him.

He was glad, though, for those few uncomfortably aware seconds to spare, because it meant when Chrollo bent his body back and he slammed into the driver’s seat, he could just about think again.

Kurapika didn’t hear what Machi said, though he was sure it was obscene and admirably insulting. The car was definitely speeding, if the way it juddered and swerved was any indication, and Kurapika could move his arms again, not a lot, or without spikes of hot bloody pain lacerating him from wrist to shoulder, but enough to get them in front of himself, enough to twist Chrollo’s orgasm-loose wrist, second favorite switchblade falling back where it belonged, perfectly balanced in Kurapika’s palms. Enough to put that blade in Chrollo’s bare stomach, sweating and spasming and soft from sex.

He dove for the car door, and he didn’t have to unlock it, _thank you foresight,_ just slam into the handle and let his momentum carry him forward and into the open road. The threads stretched, leaving him suspended for a drifting moment, then snapped, losing to the force of gravity, but not failing to take tatters of his flesh and aura with them. He hit the asphalt and bounced, shocks rattling his entire body, finally hitting the ground for good and rolling in an uncontrolled scrape of pavement, until he hit something hard and solid, the back of his head smacking into it with enough force to turn all thoughts to jelly.

After too long—a few seconds, but he didn’t have seconds to spare—he picked himself up from his pained heap. If it hadn’t been for a quick use of Emperor Time and a rushed Enhancement, he’d be dead without a doubt; as it was, he was still a mangle of minor injuries. No broken bones, by some miracle, but the threads had cut deep marks up the length of his arms, and he was weeping blood where his head had hit the brick wall behind him. He probed the wound with his fingers and decided it wasn’t serious, just a scrape, but head injuries wouldn’t be head injuries if they didn’t soak you in blood. As for his clothing—well, he’d made it through similar situations with less than a tattered dress shirt and largely intact, if crumpled, pants, but it still wasn’t the best thing to find his way back to civilization in.

Beside him, a few feet off the curb, Chrollo’s coat lay battered and abandoned on the asphalt.

The coat was in even worse shape than he was, not that it had been a prime example of craftsmanship to begin with. Or, Kurapika realized, looking at the black concrete smears splashing the fabric and wide tear opening up the back, it had been, just in a different sense; looking closer, he could see the off-color lines of fresh stitchery, the dozen places where the fabric had been artfully but undeniably patched. He wondered just how many times it had been saved from certain death.

So, then. Chrollo took care of his favorite possessions after all. For a meaning of the phrase.

His first instinct was to leave the coat, let it rot, as far away from him as possible. His second, to burn it, and he considered this one for precious moments longer than he could afford to, savoring the sweetness of spite. But there wasn’t a chance in hell of him getting his shirt closed, and the ridiculous thing would do as well to cover him as anything until he could find a change of clothes.

_And._ If Chrollo was really so attached to his things, then he’d be sure to see the Spider Head again very soon indeed.

The car was long out of sight, but that didn’t mean anything, least of all that Kurapika was safe. He’d stuck the knife in deep, and he was sure Machi, at least, would stitch Chrollo up before he bled out rather than run after Kurapika. But he couldn’t bank on it, and even if he could, first-aid only took so long. He was stranded somewhere unfamiliar, likely not far from wherever their base was, and his chances weren’t good when facing up against three Spiders rather than just one.

He looked around him, at the warehouses and dusty back alleys. The sun was setting in an orange smear over the tops of buildings. He couldn’t even be sure he was in the same city he’d met the Spiders in, but the nice thing about cities was that they were all the same; the way out couldn’t be far. Kurapika stood up on trembling legs, wiped away the slick and semen dripping from his thighs as best he could. Fixed his pants. Finally, he picked up the coat from the pavement, wrapped it around himself tight, and started walking.

~~

“So.” Machi pulled the thread through in one quick movement, hard enough to make Chrollo whine. “What the hell was all that?”

They were back at their temporary headquarters, an abandoned warehouse on the very edge of civilized society that wasn’t made any homier by the colorful curtains she’d hung up to cordon the space off into make-shift rooms. Machi had wrestled Chrollo into the stack of old boxes that served as their medical ward (as of now) and was stitching up the wound dug deep into his abdomen with her Nen, hands a flicker. She wasn’t being gentle, and Chrollo made no secret of his protest, pouting like a child. “That _hurts._ ”

“Good. You’re not answering my question.”

“Well, we kidnapped the chain user, he and Chrollo had sex in the backseat, you got distracted when they slammed into your seat, and the chain user escaped,” Shizuku listed off. She was sitting cross-legged on another box, the weapons she’d chosen to save from Kurapika laid out in front of her. “It was pretty straightforward.”

“And nothing about Chrollo getting the hots for that bastard strikes you as a problem?” Machi bit, already knowing the answer.

“Not really. It’s kind of cute. And the chain user is very pretty.” Shizuku tapped her lips in thought, and under normal circumstances, this was one of the things Machi loved most about her, the fact she always considered every question asked of her seriously, no matter how rhetorical or foregone the conclusion. “I guess I don’t want to owe Shalnark money.”

Machi tried to make the noise she spat out sound like a laugh. It didn’t work, judging by the way Shizuku sucked on her lip and said, “You seem upset.”

“Yes, I’m _upset,_ Shizu _._ ” It came out crueler than Machi wanted it to, but Shizuku didn’t flinch. She never did. “Because somebody,” and with this she yanked on a thread particularly hard, “decided screwing his damn angel was more important than keeping the Troupe safe. What were you even planning to do with him, Chrollo?”

“Ow,” Chrollo complained. He’d been playing with the knife Kurapika had left him, flicking it back and forth, uncaring that his own blood was slicking it up to the hilt, and he looked annoyed to have been interrupted. “Honestly, Machi? I don’t know.”

“You _don’t know?_ ”

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead.” He shrugged, then grimaced when it pulled at his wound. “I didn’t really want to kill him. Obviously, I would’ve, eventually, if he hadn’t escaped. Taken his eyes, neutralized the threat. But that wouldn’t have been any fun. I think I’m actually glad it worked out the way it did; it means I get the opportunity to hunt him down all over again.” Chrollo flicked the blade closed, then open again, considering. “I’m not happy that he has my coat, mind, but he gave me this knife of his in return, so I suppose we’ll just have to take care of each other’s things until we meet again. It won’t be long. I’m looking quite forward to it.”

Machi swallowed; her mouth was as dry as a scorpion’s den. Of course, Chrollo would relish the thought of a plunder that didn’t merely present itself to him, ripe for the taking with no effort expended on his part. He always had hated anything boring. “And what makes you think you’re likely to see him again anytime soon?”

Chrollo’s eyes had that glitter, the dangerous one, the same one he’d had when he’d told them they were to burglarize the entire Yorkshin auction, when he’d rhapsodized his idea of a twelve-legged Spider to a group of ragged Meteor City teenagers, when he’d first starting waxing poetic about the reclusive Kurtas’ mythical Scarlet Eyes to anyone who’d pretend to listen. _I want it, and I am going to take it, and you’re going to help me,_ that glitter said, and it was always true. Always brought on consequences, too. “Didn’t you see, Machi? I’m in his veins. As surely as he’s in mine.”

Machi didn’t respond, just like you didn’t put your hand in a wolf’s open mouth. She finished the stitches in silence, let him play with his pocket knife while she worked.

Finally, she bit off the thread, tied it off briskly and stood up, brushing off her knees. Put a safe distance between her and Chrollo, before she spoke. “The chain bastard was right. You _are_ obsessed.”

“Not at all.” Chrollo settled back against his bed of boxes, propped his feet up and gingerly settled one arm behind his head. The red line where she’d sewn his wound together almost seemed to be winking. “To tell the truth, I just think he has pretty eyes.”

“He told you he wants to eat out your heart, and you think he has pretty eyes.” Machi’s voice sounded edged with hysteria, even to her own ears. “I hope you know your dick is going to be the thing that gets us all killed.”

Chrollo grinned at her, a living rictus. “There are worse ways to go out.”

“Glad you think so.” Suddenly, she felt very tired, and sure she’d be left picking up the pieces when whatever this was inevitably blew up in all their faces, as it always did. “Because if he doesn’t end you for this, I will.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah. Don't take pointers from any of these people. They're all disasters.
> 
> I'm on Twitter @sapphxrror, where I talk about KrKr more than is really healthy, along with other questionable fandom stuff. Comments, as ever, are deeply appreciated <3


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